


For the Court of the Crimson King

by Cultivation



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Justice League Dark: Apokolips War (2020), Justice League: The Flashpoint Paradox
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Apocalypse, Bittersweet, Bittersweet Ending, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Brainwashed Bruce Wayne, Brainwashing, Bruce Wayne Has Issues, Bruce Wayne Whump, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Memories, Dark Bruce Wayne, Drabble, False Memories, Flashpoint (DCU), Gotham City - Freeform, Heavy Angst, Hurt Bruce Wayne, Hurt No Comfort, Internal Conflict, Justice League Dark: Apokolips War Spoilers, M/M, Memories, Mentioned Batfamily (DCU), Mentioned Thomas Wayne - Freeform, Mind Control, Mind Games, Mind Manipulation, Mind Meld, Post-Flashpoint (DCU), Whump, between a brainwashed batman and a irritated bruce wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-12 21:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29515773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cultivation/pseuds/Cultivation
Summary: From Darkseid's brainwashing and the Mobius chair's torture, Batman is split from Bruce Wayne. Batman is loyal and in love with his master's grand vision for Apokolips. Bruce Wayne retains his identity— hishumanity— and intends to regain control.To ensure his loyalty, Batman is given his first mission: destroy what’s left of Bruce Wayne.This is no easy task; there isn’t much left to destroy. The only thing left he can grasp at Wayne would very much like to destroy himself.
Relationships: Joker (DCU) & Bruce Wayne, Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	For the Court of the Crimson King

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a hot minute since I wrote for this ship, but I've been itching to get back to it since I watched JLD:AW so... here's the culmination of that.
> 
> Thank you so much to my wonderful friend and beta, [skittykitty](/users/skittykitty/)!

“Batman, I have a task for you.” 

To serve him is an honor and to be requested by him is a gift for which no substitute can compare. To see his body and voice through the hologram brings him peace and satisfaction. The chair Batman sits upon— that which gave him life with electric bolts— glows but fails to light his… quarters? He isn’t entirely sure where he is, only that it belongs to him now; like this body and mind. Darkseid, his… master, stands tall through the projection. The hologram flickers, displacing his image briefly. His arms are crossed at his back, body language stilted and stiff. The knowledge of such things is pulled from another— the one who screams for release. 

Bruce Wayne is screaming inside his head. He is yelling,— he is _angry_ — and Batman can’t quite pin why. What is better than serving Darkseid? What is better than being the only confidant to the greatest New God? Batman cannot think of a single thing greater than that. Yet, Wayne continues to knock and bang inside his mind, leaving behind a furious pulsing. The pain makes Batman nauseous— makes him unable to speak or move. He can only hope Wayne remains calm around Darkseid (and, if he truly is the World’s Greatest Detective, he won’t risk ruining his own body by disobeying orders).

“What is it, Lord?” Batman asks. 

“I suspect your body and mind is not sound, is it?”

“Not by forces in my control, Lord Darkseid. The host— his mind is still intact. He is trying to stay _alive_ inside my head.” Darkseid hums discontentedly, but his expression remains unchanged.

“I have a solution for this, Batman, that you will take great pleasure in.” He smiles at his master. Anything to quiet the mindless cries for control in his head would be a great gift, indeed. Perhaps even better than being tasked. “Find what he loves most… and _destroy_ it.” Suddenly, the screaming in his head quiets. There is peace— there is silence. “Once you do this, you will have shown your unending loyalty.” His smile widens.

“Yes, my lord.”

* * *

First, he speaks of his family. Darkseid feeds him the information— the information he could gather from others and what he knows firsthand. His former protégé, Nightwing (once Robin, known to a special some as Dick Grayson), died mercilessly. It is this event— some less _admirable_ would call it a tragedy— that gave Darkseid’s tech the power over Bruce Wayne, effectively infecting him with beautiful indoctrinating words and symphonies. Batman remembers their harmony and their truth. It’s a sweeter memory than he has ever known. Then again, Wayne’s experiences lead much to be desired. 

When reminded and provoked by Grayson’s death, Wayne does not comment.

It’s the first of many failures. Batman brings him, one at a time, to his former league members. He brings them to the Furies, to the Flash, and to the Grid— everyone he knew. Everyone he must’ve cared for before the war. But, it’s never enough. No matter what memory he recounts or who he shows him, Batman cannot shake his screaming or his silence. Wayne remains resolute and soundless, only ever crying and clawing in spite. Batman wonders— very briefly, never lingering— if he never does get it from him, what other ways will he get Wayne to keep quiet permanently. Even killing innocents— tearing them limb from limb— doesn’t awaken anything in him. He runs dry of options and all his methods fall flat. 

Until an idea spawns in his head… in Wayne’s head.

Batman begins searching his memories. Most are inconsequential and irrelevant to his purpose, but Wayne takes notice. He is heard through the flickering pieces of tampered memories left bare and the memories left behind to fend for themselves. One of these memories revolves around a Talia. Another for a Selina. Before that, a Silver. Before that, a… Tommy. After him, a Harvey. People whom Wayne is willing to let go in the pursuit of protecting someone else— other memories. All he has to do is wait, but waiting proves to be infuriating and painful. Wayne provides an unrelenting ache in his head, weighing him down and making him useless for hours at a time.

If he doesn’t fix this problem soon, he’ll be expendable.

* * *

“Why won’t you give up?” The hushed quiet of his quarters makes Batman’s words much louder than he intended them to be. They echo from the high ceilings and bounce from wall to wall. Through the stained glass windows, Paradooms fly gracelessly across the skyline. A few brawl amongst themselves, the sound of their screeching a further nuisance to continuing his task. “What else could you lose, Wayne?” These questions never lead anywhere; Wayne never answers. His unrelenting hold on these memories only makes Batman more determined— more driven— to find what he’s hiding. “Your precious Gotham is nothing but ashes now. Your family is gone. Dick is gone. What else could you be hiding from me? Whatever it is, I will find it. You cannot hold onto them forever.”

_And you— you cannot hold onto me forever._

It’s the first time he has ever spoken back. It’s the first time he’s ever sensed true fear. This can lead him somewhere.

“Whatever are you afraid of, Wayne?”

_Nothing._

“Liar.”

* * *

A single memory breaches through.

From the rain and the architecture, Batman knows it must be Wayne’s beloved Gotham… or how it was before Darkseid took over Earth. The sky is black and the moon hides behind grayish clouds. He moves within the memory and his footsteps lead him to an alleyway. The pitter-patter of rain follows him. Stone bricks beneath his boots stop at the sight of white tape: an outline of two bodies. He kneels and places a rose he didn’t recognize holding down where the tape converges. This is farther than he has ever gotten into Wayne’s memories and yet... it’s not quite right.

All at once, he recognizes he’s not alone. Someone is lurking just out of reach— in the memory and in Wayne’s thoughts. They are in this memory,— or, rather, they’re _supposed_ to be— but Batman cannot see them. The person is missing from the memory— forcibly taken out of their place and replaced with disquiet. The stillness of Bruce Wayne’s position and the icy breeze of rain and wind make it unbearable to endure any longer. Batman is knocked from the memory. He returns to reality, where nightfall has taken a hold over Apokolips. Seething, Batman lashes out to his empty quarters.

“I will find them!” he spits furiously. “You can prolong this as long as you want, but I will find them and I will destroy them, and then— then, you will be _nothing_.”

_I will never leave you. I will not die. Not even with him._

A smile creeps onto his face. Laughter rumbles deep in his chest.

“A man, then…” A pang of fear emanates from Wayne; the sensation exhilarates him.

* * *

Batman keeps returning to the same memory again and again to no avail. Rain always falls, the tape of two bodies always remains, and the presence of an individual in the scene is withheld. There is never change, merely the greetings of Wayne who keeps _talking_ but adds nothing to his search. He isn’t goading, but Batman doesn’t give him any credit for his restraint; he still hasn’t realized his voice will be silenced and that is goading enough. To think he has free will— a way to escape, a mind of his own— is insult enough. No one escapes Darkseid: not him, not the Justice League, and not Earth. 

The passage of time often blends together on Apokolips. Weeks pass like seconds, months pass like hours, and years pass like days. Batman doesn’t exactly mind this, but the screaming nuisance in his head seems to hold onto the useless information as if it will lead to his salvation. Batman can wait. He can wait forever. He can wait until Darkseid revokes him from the Mobius chair and sends the Paradooms to tear him apart. If he has any luck, he won’t have to wait much longer. Whoever this man is, they will die regardless. Darkseid’s machinations will be met. The Earth will be drained of its core. Everyone on the planet will die. 

“You know this… and, yet, you still hide him.”

_He deserves a fate much worse than death._

This strikes Batman in a way he cannot comprehend. Wayne doesn’t make another comment, but he doesn’t need to. He’s already given Batman enough to stew on for the remaining hours before Darkseid will ask for a status report. Whether he recognizes it or not, Wayne has given him another clue. In the eyes of Wayne, this man he protects doesn’t deserve saving, and yet he keeps him hidden away. Perhaps, he doesn’t want him to die by his own hand. Perhaps, he believes what he says is true: dying by his hands isn’t good enough. Or… maybe, it is both. Bruce Wayne was a hero; he never killed. But, perhaps, he _wanted_ to.

“Did you want to kill him?” He doesn’t expect an answer.

_Yes._

* * *

Batman doesn’t have dreams, but Wayne does.

They are never pleasant for him. His friends being beaten, ripped, and destroyed are some of the first memories to arise. His first son reduced to limbs and blood— disfigured and faceless. His youngest watching the battle unfold as he predicted. Wayne doesn’t cry for them. Batman believes him incapable of mourning. To mourn is to accept loss, and he has quickly come to the conclusion that Wayne has never accepted loss. The dream fades and whimpers into sounds and screams. The echo of twin gunshots rippling through brisk air and the smell of cooper twinging the wind. The face of a petrified little boy staring down the barrel of the same pistol that took his parents. 

When it comes to them, Wayne screams to wake up.

But, Wayne doesn’t have control; Batman does, and he wants to keep watching. Any detail could lead him to another clue. Any fragment or partial memory hidden within this dream could give him the answer. He could serve Darkseid without skepticism or scorn— earn his loyalty and trust. Batman could have everything. But, the dream doesn’t give him much. All he gets are hushed voices. One sounds like Wayne himself. The other… is unrecognizable, likely the man he’s protecting. He would have to skim through the other memories he has given up to identify it… that is if he can remember the sound of it. The words are jumbled— unintelligible— and soft. The words are… tender? Batman wakes with a question fresh on his mind.

“You don’t hate him.”

_I despise him._

Batman doesn’t know what to make of this answer… and— it seems— neither does Wayne.

* * *

“I have gained many clues, my lord, but Wayne still remains.” Darkseid’s hologram flickers. He doesn’t speak nor does he move. His body and face are obscured by the shadow of his location. To Batman’s knowledge, he is on Earth, in the pursuit of collecting all remaining meta-humans. It’s a task Darkseid would have given to him… if he wasn’t still dealing with Wayne’s irritating, stubborn insistence within his head. He wonders whether or not his master can see his conflict— if he can sense his struggle against the unrelenting man inside his mind. This hope that Darkseid can understand. “I can assure you he will break soon. I only need more—”

“Time,” Darkseid finishes. His cadence rocks the very cells of Batman’s body. It’s a voice to be listened to— to never make dissatisfied… and yet, that is precisely what he has done. “I will allot you another week. That is all the time you will get.” He swallows harshly— discreetly. 

“Thank you, Lord Darkseid.” The hologram fizzles and dies, leaving Batman’s quarters unlit. Darkseid was so assuring before… his presence so soothing and wanted. Now, his very presence invokes goosebumps against his skin and quickens his heartbeats. Beneath the gloves, his palms grow clammy, and beneath the cowl, his pupils constrict. With the dim blue of his hologram gone, his quarters are dark and the bed dressings are messy. He wouldn’t be in this position if it weren’t for Wayne. He wouldn’t be living in… 

_Living in what?_

A noticeable discomfort and unease arise in him with Wayne’s sudden intrusion. He grimaces and hums.

“Quiet.”

_Are you afraid of him?_

“I’m afraid of nothing.”

_Everyone is afraid of something._

“What’re you afraid of?”

His assuredness falters in the face of his own question turned against him. Batman revels in the small victory of making Wayne speechless, but… it doesn’t last long.

_I am fear._

Amusement plasters a smirk across his face.

“You don’t seem so sure,” he taunts. With his silence, Batman’s smirk expands into a small smile. “You don’t have to say it. I already know what you’re afraid of, Wayne.”

_Really?_

“You’re afraid to lose… and you’re going to lose. You’re going to lose this battle— just like you lost the war.” The sound of laughter bounces inside his head; a throbbing, incited by the vicious bemusement of Wayne, almost makes Batman nauseous. His knees feel weak and, if he weren’t sitting on his throne,— if he were standing— he would undoubtedly fall. Aimlessly, Batman clutches a hand to his temples.

_I’m not afraid to lose, parasite. I’ve lost everyone. There is nothing else left to lose._

Batman, in the lightless room, can only feel the pangs of defeat; he won’t win this battle, because Wayne— Wayne is _right_. He grinds his teeth and his fists clench. Wayne doesn’t answer him. Batman resigns to what he knows best: threats. 

“I will find him, and I will break him apart— piece by piece, with your own hands— before I put him out of his misery.” The quiet that follows is loud. He knows Wayne will speak. He hasn’t retreated just yet; he still has something to say, and who would Batman be not to listen? Emerging one last time to speak, Wayne only utters three words.

_He’s beyond broken._

This gives Batman pause; it shouldn’t.

* * *

There isn’t much time left, and Batman isn’t entirely sure what options he has left. On Apokolips, there is no rain; there are humidity and heat— and nothing else. He knows that. But, for some reason, he wishes there _was_ rain. Perhaps then, he could drown out the foreboding of his lordship’s return. Maybe, he could drown out the doubts Wayne has seeded in his head. In the quiet discomfort of an invasive climate, Batman is left to fend for himself against both of these worries. Outside his room, he can see the Furies training. A woman wielding a sword, lasso, and shield fights a woman with red hair across one of the many bridges. Batman doesn’t know their names; for all he knows, they don’t have any.

_Diana has the lasso, sword, and shield. Mera is the redhead._

He imagines it must be odd to never sweat. Batman was never torn apart, but the Furies were. Their bodies, replaced with cybernetics, disallow them the ability for many _human-like_ movements. Instead, there is a certain stiltedness to the way they run and attack— fly and block. They aren’t used to the new additions to their bodies. They aren’t used to the weight of their new limbs. But despite their limitations, the duelists, Diana and Mera, fight with precision and drive— far beyond what Darkseid could give them. They fight with honor, parting when the other is at their mercy and backing away when the other tires.

“Were they warriors?” He didn’t mean to speak so softly. He didn’t mean to sound so… _meek_. The memories Wayne gave up of them Batman turned a blind eye to; if he was willing to give them up, they would be of little importance to his goal. Then again… he isn’t sure why he wants to know now. There isn’t a purpose behind it— no motive he can think up. He just… he just finds the information enlightening. Nothing more or less to it than that.

_Diana was the princess of Themyscira, an island of immortal warriors. Mera was the queen of Atlantis._

The women draw back, panting and expressionless.

“And who are they now?”

_Pawns._

* * *

He returns to the memory and, every time he reaches the precipice of a new addition, Wayne shields it from him. But, despite his best efforts, new clues keep popping up. His interference is slowly weakening with Batman’s consistent pervasions. Any moment, he will break and reveal the man he is hiding. Then, he’ll crush him— effectively, crushing Wayne as well. There will be no salvation. He will do as he desires— to serve Darkseid to the fullest capacity; that is his job, satisfaction, and his utmost purpose in life. Wayne’s infuriating goading— to which he predicted unknowingly— only makes his determination stronger. Steadfast, he is in the rain again. The pitter-patter of Gotham is familiar to him now... _steadying_. He’s kneeling before the white tape, a rose in hand. He places it upon the stone bricks where the tape converges.

_“It’s_ —”

Batman whips around, but the voice is gone— and any and all trace of their body is gone, too (possibly never there).

_Get out._

“I thought you weren’t afraid to lose.”

_I’m not losing._

“But, you’re not winning, either.”

_There is no winning or losing. All there is… is an ending._

Somberly, Batman reflects on this. Without thought or reason, an image pops into his head. A scene of blood and death with him at the center of it. Darkseid stands next to him, hovering just above the ground. This image came pre-gifted into his consciousness. It was a sweet fantasy… something to look forward to and something to strive for— something to, one day, _attain_. Yet, the image no longer comforts him as it once did. Instead, there is some other emotion that resonates with the image. He can’t quite pinpoint it nor can he understand it. It’s elusive— quite like Wayne. But he knows it's the same feeling that urges his hands to tremble and his throat to close— the same feeling that elicits goosebumps and quickens his heartbeats. The same one Wayne called _fear_.

Perhaps, he deserves more credit than Batman has given him. 

  
“Indeed…”

* * *

_What do you want from this?_

It’s a question Batman has never asked himself before. Does he want anything? He supposes he wants a few things. He wants Darkseid’s plans to succeed. He wants his machinations to succeed. He wants his life to be in the servitude of Darkseid. He wants to be the one at his side, aiding him and ever loyal. It’s a perfect picture. But, the frame has fallen and the glass has broken. He’s beginning to see the picture a little… differently than before. What does he want for himself? What does he want that doesn’t revolve around his lord? Quietly, he comes to the conclusion that he doesn’t know. Perhaps, he shouldn’t have any desires for himself. Perhaps that is the best way he can serve his master. 

_Dig deeper. There is something you want. I can see it. You can, too._

Perhaps, there is something beyond Darkseid. Batman shivers at the very notion. 

“What are you trying to do?”

_Awaken you._

“It won’t work. I am not weak-minded as you are. I am all the bidding of Darkseid— nothing more.”

_No one is that simple. Everyone has more to them than that._

“Is that what you think about the man in your memory?” He doesn’t answer the deflection.

_You wanted it to rain. You wanted to learn about Diana and Mera._

“To get closer to him— to you.”

_No… you wanted to know for yourself._

Sighing a quiet defeat, Batman stares through the small window of his quarters.

“You didn’t answer my question.” As if silently compromising in Batman's resignation, Wayne doesn't deflect.

_He’s supposed to be simple._

* * *

Gotham greets Batman again. The alleyway with white tape outlines and thundering rain graces his vision and senses. Batman can see why Wayne adores it so much. The tall, imposing structures give him many places to hide away and blend into. Brisk air and the peaceful pitter-patter of rain could lull Batman to sleep. He imagines it would feel even colder than it does in Wayne’s memories. How its iciness would wash away the stick of sweat against his skin and the uncomfortable warmth of his suit and cowl. If he opens his eyes, he’ll ruin the illusion— the dazzling memory. Darkseid will want a status report soon, but… this is more important. He could gain another clue. He could discover the identity of Wayne’s most cherished man. He could… see the rain—

_I can show you the rain._

He doesn’t do it consciously, but he finds himself nodding. It’s affirmation enough for the man inside his head to play out other memories. Most of them are quiet; Wayne stands atop a rooftop, staring soundlessly at the city below him. It’s always a city full of lights but never colorful kinds. The kind of neon signs that flicker too often or the street lights casting a yellowed glow across their residential sidewalks. The people of Gotham dress in blacks, grays, and neutrals. Pinks and purples are for the nightclub districts and sex workers trying to get by. The green of money stands out amongst the sea of dark colors and never in a pretty way. Money reeks of bad intentions and dirty people within Wayne’s arrangement of memories. 

What distinguishes good and bad in Bruce Wayne’s mind is rather simplistic.

The irony of this fails to elude him. Batman doesn’t want to pry for fear of being stolen away from the tranquility of the rain. Moonlight befalls the memory most vivid. A serene scene unfolds of Wayne— of Batman watching through his eyes— running past dead, rotting trees. He turns his head and, in the distance, he can see his home, Wayne Manor, stare back at him. He imagines the structure in that way: intimidating, foreboding. His legs speeding across rocks and uneven terrain, he comes to stop in front of a murky pond. Mud sticks to his shoes. Trees shade pointlessly from the overcast sky. Sticks float idly in the cloudy pond water. The smell of dewdrops and wet earth permeates strongly.

Even without the rain, Batman would stay in this memory.

Through the lightless murky surface of the pond, Wayne— Batman— gazes back at his reflection. The man he sees— or, more accurately, the boy— staring back at him looks unfamiliar. His eyes don’t have bags like other memories he’s seen at a similar age do. His body is frail and his face is pale, but he isn’t _haunted_. There’s something distinctly innocent about the eyes in the pond’s reflection. Batman has never known a child; he has never been a child. He is a personality that gained sentience through Darkseid’s loving bolts to Wayne’s brain. He is many different things: a confidant to Darkseid, a Lord to Luthor, and… a parasite to Wayne, but he has never been innocent. He has never experienced joy in the simplest of things or found interest in anything other than pleasing his master’s wishes and whims.

_That’s not true._

  
“No…” Batman whispers. His eyes open. “It’s not.”

* * *

“Two days.” Darkseid’s voice alone makes Batman uneasy. His words only make the unease curdle into dread. The hologram fizzles away, leaving him in blackness. The discomfort from his presence still resides, as if his master never left. He drew the curtains of his small window of light and cast aside the bedding to the floor long ago. The heat seeps into his room regardless; no place on Apokolips is untouched by its intensity. The realization of what is happening dawns on him; he doesn’t have enough time left. He won’t be able to persuade or provoke or do anything to destroy him. Wayne… will win. Only a miracle could turn things in Batman’s favor.

He turns towards the window and approaches the curtains. His gloved fingers touch the material. Cautiously, Batman retracts his hand and begins to pull at his glove. The process is unnatural. He only ever removes the suit when he needs to cleanse himself. But, his mind has yet to catch up with his body. The material inches off of his palm and slowly— gradually— slips from his fingers. It’s almost shocking to see his hand. To see the skin and hair covering flesh, veins, and bone is profound— indescribable. He flexes his fingers, finding them somewhat stiff from the prolonged time in his suit. Batman’s eyes tear away from his hand and land on the crimson curtains. Their material looks… soft. He’s sure Wayne has a word to describe them, but he remains ever silent. 

Batman reaches his hand forward, fingers grazing the fabric. They are just as soft as he believed they would be. He rubs the material between his pointer and middle fingers. The texture changes as he crosses his fingers up and down. He isn’t sure the last time he felt something _soft_. Apokolips offers very few things without sharpness, blood, or grime. Anything innocent is vacant from the planet; women and children live elsewhere, far away from Darkseid’s abode. Batman sighs quietly in his quarters— so quietly that he’s sure no one would hear it if more than a foot away. But, Wayne isn’t a foot away. He’s in his head. He pulls back his hand.

_Velvet… it’s velvet._

* * *

Batman has returned yet again. The white tape, stone bricks, rain, and alleyway are familiar and almost friendly. If it weren’t for the lingering dread of not knowing what Darkseid will do to him next, he would enjoy it. As is, it only serves as an unsavory reminder of what’s to come. What he cannot possibly avoid or overcome. The memory plays out just the same. He kneels in front of the outlines of two bodies— who must be Wayne’s beloved parents— and places a rose where the tape converges. He stays there for a long while, kneeling in front of them. In the distance, the echo of gunshots and screaming plays an unwanted tune. His body is stiffened and tight. Flashes of blood fawning out from their bodies and disappearing into the nearby gutter. The cold grips his body and intensifies the tension in his muscles. He doesn’t have the will to rise— to leave.

These… details are _new._

Beside him, just out of sight, he can feel the presence of someone else. Batman watches through Wayne’s eyes intently. Their presence in the memory isn’t sweet, but it isn’t entirely sour; it’s merely… out of place. He shouldn’t be here, but the memory is untampered. He shouldn’t be beside him— that much is clear. Yet, Wayne allows him to stand and watch him, without turning or acknowledging him whatsoever. Perhaps he thinks doing so will only encourage the behavior. After all, from what Batman has gathered thus far about the man, he isn’t someone Wayne trusts. He is someone Wayne hates and despises— someone he wanted to _kill_. Someone who should be simple. Someone who— by all accounts of Wayne’s memories, bias, and morals— deserves a fate worse than death. It’s only when the faceless voice speaks that Batman thinks otherwise.

_“It’s funny, really.”_ His voice is scratchy and nasally with a smoker’s edge. There are no other pleasant memories associated with this voice, yet it’s distinct and traceable across Wayne’s lexicon of faces and names. Batman can’t quite place the face with a name, but he doesn’t want to. He allows the memory to play as is, uninterrupted with his predictions or inputs. He observes through Wayne’s eyes as his body rises to stand. He is still, back turned to the awful voice. The man begins to laugh, the sound of which echoing across the brick walls on either side of them. The narrowness of the alleyway becomes suddenly apparent. Beneath the cowl, he swallows harshly. _“I never thought I’d really see you here, Bats.”_

_“Neither did I.”_ Wayne’s voice is hoarse in this memory. The reason doesn’t seem to matter. The man’s footsteps resound like a crashing wave. The click-clack of his shoes against dampened stone pavement intrigue Batman. He wants to know more— _needs_ to know more. The man enters his peripheral in blurred but dynamic colors— much brighter than the Gotham he is used to. Stark white and vibrant purple and green with a twinge of orange, red, and yellow collide in the form of a frail body. _“Why are you here?”_

_“To grieve, of course.”_

_“Joker—”_

That’s it… 

_“Speak it louder, darling. I can’t hear you over the rain.”_

_“Joker..."_

That’s his name.

_"What are you doing here?”_

Batman is saved.

Wayne turns his body to face him. The man— Joker— scoffs. The sound bounces and echoes off the alleyway walls. The colors are no longer a blur. They form a person— barely edging human: a white face with bloody lips and a sickening smile, a purple trench coat with orange accents hidden beneath, and a head of unruly viridescent hair. They all serve as reminders that he may have once been human; he may have once been innocent.

_“I thought you’d want some company.”_

_“Why would I want you here?”_

_“Oh, Bats, we both know the answer to that.”_ Wayne and Joker eye each other silently, the pitter-patter of rain pouring down on both of them. The memory fades away at the corners, ripping away Batman’s chance at knowing further— ripping away the nature of their relationship to one another. But, it is the one memory he wasn’t supposed to see… the memory Wayne has withheld all this time. He isn’t entirely sure how it happened. Perhaps, Wayne is just tired— both in the memory and in Batman’s head. But, he knows it’s something more. It’s a test… it’s a miracle. 

He opens his eyes and slips away from his quarters for the first time in weeks. 

“I _will_ find him.” His voice is triumphant with his victory. Wayne doesn’t seem to notice.

_But, you will not destroy him. No one can._

“No, but I can do what you couldn’t.”

_Kill him?_

“Yes.” Wayne only hums in his head, neither pleased nor disapproving. It’s merely dejected... if anything at all. Batman aches to reassure him of this— to please him. It’s a jarring feeling, to say the least. “Don’t worry, Wayne. I will get rid of him.” The assurance does nothing. What Wayne says next only confirms it. 

_It isn’t that simple._

* * *

Earth isn’t anything like Wayne’s memories. The Gotham he remembered so vividly is rubble and ash. Storefronts and homes in ruin and skyscrapers on fire— some crumbling and some fallen. The overcast skies are painted in sickly warm tones, encroaching on bloody… and blood lines the streets. Bodies of innocents opened and on full display. The Paradooms did this. Batman wanted this. It’s all for Darkseid’s master plan. His better picture and perfect image. He tries to conjure up the images again— the ones once so beautiful before his implantation into a physical form. He swallows the bile that arises at the smell of their rot... their faces forever paralyzed and petrified. Wayne, in his silence, says more than he ever has before. Batman keeps walking.

He could use the Mobius chair to travel, but he _doesn’t_. 

The dust of fallen buildings builds on his boots, dirtying them with cinders and wreckage. He avoids the blood puddles as much as he can; the sight of blood is different than Wayne’s memories and— and the sight of blood is much less beautiful in person... less _enticing_ than Darkseid’s promises. He promised so many things with his silver tongue and the silver was ever so shiny. Batman isn’t entirely sure who or what he is anymore. Memories are filtering in without Wayne’s excessive control, and they do nothing to absolve the strife culminating inside his head. A constant symposium between himself and Wayne, never coming to compromise unless in the acceptance of pain and agony. Yet, when he’s silent, it’s more taunting. It’s clearer he is winning their little game. He is _winning_. Batman is losing— losing his little peace of mind.

This killing must be a message to Wayne. A bloody, loud message that quiets him and his sweet, superficial words— and his gorgeous, devastating memories. But, Wayne won’t let him step a foot further without trying to entice him back to the same memory that brought him here... to Gotham,— what used to be Gotham— looking for _The_ Joker. He isn’t exactly sure who he expected it to be, but he wasn’t it. Batman retreads paths he can recall from Wayne’s limited selections of memories. He takes cautious steps and uses the veil of chaos to his advantage. Stragglers, who walk through the streets aimlessly, aren’t looking for him.

_Because I wasn’t here... when my city needed me most. I failed them._

For whatever reason, Batman is compelled to rebuke that sentiment.

“You didn’t fail them, Wayne,” he speaks. His voice is shallow but echoes across the ruined streets. He wishes it didn’t. He wishes the streets were gray and alive. He wishes it would rain and the buildings would come back into place. “Superman failed you. He failed everyone.” Inside his head, Wayne doesn’t respond. Inside his head, Batman isn’t sure where he came up with that idea. It isn’t entirely wrong, but he doesn’t necessarily believe it either. Superman’s urgency was merely one part of Darkseid’s plan. How was he to know of his monitoring? How was anyone to know the villain would—

No one could possibly know the _villain_ would win…

Batman can feel his body become like air and paper— flimsy and weightless. He doesn’t feel in the moment but rather lost in time and thought itself. He tries to pull at his glove and touch his own skin. To remind himself he exists, and the world around him is as it should be— as it deserves. But, no matter how hard he tries to reconnect the broken thread, he cannot believe it any longer. The city proves this: blackened blood and discombobulated, broken bodies on the streets and all signs of life and prosperity dwindling and hopeless. It’s not what Darkseid promised. It’s not what Batman wanted to see. It’s nothing like the beautiful painting of blood and death traced within his head before life was even a concept— before Batman and Bruce Wayne were forcibly separated and him (the parasite of the Mobius chair’s influence) tore his brain into two. The pictures painted in Wayne’s memories _were_ beautiful, irreplaceable art, and Gotham was his proudest piece. 

_Do you see now?_

His eyes feel… burning. His body barely refrains from shuddering.

“Yes… I see it.” 

_Let me show you the rest._

In an instant, he’s back in the memory. The moments he has memorized flash by in brief images and garbled words. Batman is standing across from Joker… in front of the white tape. His eyes linger on the rose— where the bodies converge. Wayne can still see them and their rose-colored puddle. Even in this memory’s moment, he can still see the stained white pearls rolling into the sewer. He never seems to stop seeing them, no matter where he goes. Joker’s eyes trace his body in the night and the rain. His wet hair sticks to his forehead, but his body doesn’t shudder in the cold. Instead, he only pulls his trenchcoat’s collar closer to his neck and awaits Wayne’s next words.

_“My father wrote me a letter… from another universe. He was Batman there.”_ Joker hums quietly. The rain falls steadily.

_“How exciting.”_ Despite the mirthless tone of Joker’s voice, Wayne continues undeterred.

_“He told me he wasn’t a good person— that I shouldn’t follow in his footsteps. I didn’t understand that, then…”_

_“But, you do now?”_ Wayne nods his head solemnly.

_“I did it anyway. I have followed in his footsteps and I’m starting to wonder—”_

_“If you’re a good person?”_ Joker’s laughter rings across his ears— both Wayne’s and Batman’s. _“Bats, you’re the greatest person I know.”_

_“That’s not saying much… coming from you.”_ There’s a pause in which the rain overcomes the loudness of their silence. It’s brief and unbidden, but he can feel it stretching across his face. Wayne, despite the pain and strife of staring at his beginning, smiles. He smiles, and Joker’s laugh feels a little less invasive— quieter, reserved— as he smiles back at Wayne. Batman can only watch and feel the emotions of the event at hand; he cannot know the decades of harm and history dealt by the Joker or the harm he’s dealt to their city. In this memory, Wayne seems not to know it either. He isn’t exactly ignorant so much as starkly aware— aware that he is standing next to the precise type of person he swore to protect his city from and sharing a joke with him. Wayne’s smile falters; so does Joker’s. Somehow, the joke is no longer funny. 

_“What is it?”_ Joker’s expression is sharply contorted, almost a caricature of what he deems to be _concern_. It’s the most real emotion he has ever shown in this memory (and something tells Batman it’s the most real in the rest of his memories, too).

_“I failed him… and my mother. I’ve failed my family. I’ve failed this city.”_

_“What makes you say that?”_

_“I’m standing next to you.”_ His voice is haunted by the little fractions that do come back to him. Memories of murder and mutilations string an unrhythmic tune. Joker isn’t fazed, simply staring off towards the abandoned theater ahead. 

_“Indeed.”_ Slowly, Joker raises his hand and brushes Wayne’s fingers. He stills, expecting an entirely different response than what he receives; Wayne reaches back. They conjoin their hands, the feeling of which seems as though it has happened before. Still, this gesture is significant. In the ways their fingers curl around the others and find security in it, knowing it will never be mentioned again. 

_“My mother… she was you. She was the Joker.”_ Ever so slightly, he can feel Joker’s grip tighten. He doesn’t laugh, but the rumble of laughter flows through his body; he refuses to allow it to flow freely— to be released. 

_“And I thought I was special.”_ Wayne looks to him, jaw tightly locked in place. Joker meets his gaze, sour. There are words he wanted to say… words Batman can say now, to an empty bloody street— the converging tape, abandoned theater, and inhuman man nowhere in sight. He suspects Wayne won’t thank him for this, but Batman isn’t looking for his thanks. He simply wants to pay homage to the moment he lost. It is a quiet apology for all his actions— and the actions that have yet to come. Words that won’t exonerate him but show his understanding; he understands it, and he sees what Wayne was trying to show him— its beautiful, destructive, ugly design.

“In this universe, you are.”

* * *

Batman finds him in what used to be the Narrows; what’s now a wasteland of crumbling complexes, toppled skyscrapers, and destitute streets— all reeking of blood, rot, and waste. Joker’s hideout is in the sewers beneath. There was a time, when things were simpler and time was abstract, Wayne would seek him out down here. His boots displace thickened water— more akin to sludge now— as he approaches the cacophony of noise and the glare of flashing lights. His footsteps leave imprints in the bile beneath. His sense of smell has eluded him since he entered through the manhole cover and part of him is glad for it. If Batman could smell the sludge he trudges through, he’d be ill.

The sounds become clearer the closer he comes. Joker’s voice is not among them. Only the blare of a familiar tune— a ballet’s theme— echoes through the sewers. Batman avoids making as much noise, wading through the sludge with precision. The lights flick from one color to another: from red to pink, from pink to green, from green to orange, from orange to purple, and so on. He imagines none of these colors will look good on Joker. In Wayne’s memories, he is too vibrant for Gotham’s grays— a walking, talking contradiction to the notion that the city sucks at the life of everyone in sight. Joker is full of life— Wayne would say too _much_ life— and flaunts it to anyone in sight. He’ll be sure to do so in front of Batman. He’s starting to worry, the further he approaches, that Joker won’t be expecting _him_.

He’ll believe the face, with reddened eyes and disconnected speech, belongs to Bruce Wayne— to _his_ Batman. 

Explaining that his egos and personas have separated and _his_ Batman no longer exists— the one he’d hold hands with in the rain and share laughter with on Crime Alley— is a daunting task. He considers pretending to be that person, the one who used to scream inside his head. He considers a lot of things before reaching the entrance to Joker’s enclave. The intensity of the music only serves to rattle him further. Wayne has been suspiciously silent throughout his entire journey here. He does not comment now, either. Batman can feel the hairs on his arms and back of his neck rise beneath the layers of his suit and cowl. Straining against the sludge deliberately slow, he can hear every single movement inside. The presence of footsteps— undoubtedly Joker’s manic pacing— churns uncomfortably in his gut. It’s strange how the blood, gore, and death are akin to this feeling. He doesn’t ponder on it longer. 

Darkseid is waiting.

He takes the necessary steps forward, into the flashing lights and soaring Tchaikovsky. The first notable features of the hideout follow a pattern in Wayne’s memories. A broken hand mirror lays haphazardly discarded on the floor, fragments sitting against concrete. An unlit vanity is set nearby, fingerprints and lipstick smudges written across the glass. Atop a grand piano, in the corner of the enclave, rests an active vinyl player. The record spins as the needle moves with the grain. Someone is waiting for him,— just out of sight— and he must go to him. He must end this. He must abide by Darkseid's wishes or face a fate much worse than death. Batman is no fool; he will follow through. But… it doesn’t have to be _cruel_. Darkseid cannot search through his memories or doubt his conviction— his innately-driven vies. Batman will use this to his advantage for as long as he is permitted.

“Hello, _darling_.” Joker’s voice rings in his ears. It flows in tandem with the music, as if he speaks with its tempo in mind. Slowly, he comes to reveal himself from beside the piano. His hair has grown into a ratty mullet, matted by blackened, copper-smelling patches. Black rings around his hollow eyes and red messily stretch with lips, dulled in the contrasting lights. What interests Batman most— what disturbs Wayne most— is his trench coat; the very same one he wore in the memory. He approaches in stilted movements, hiding something behind his back. “What brings you to Gotham, imposter?”

“You,” he answers. Joker seems unsatisfied with that response. He’s certain his voice alone gives it away. There is no way he can emulate what Bruce sounded like as Batman— not here and not with him. There is just something missing in his attempt to do so, and he knows precisely what it is: the humanity. Joker’s face drops, eyes flaring with rage. He reveals the dagger behind his back and allows it to clatter to the floor in defeat.

“So, the Bat really is dead?” He can’t bring himself to answer this question at all. Inside his head, Wayne abandons his silence and answers for him.

_Yes._

“Are you still in there, Brucie?” Joker stands on the tops of his feet, pointing at Batman’s forehead. “Are you still home?” He swallows his reservations and pushes past the bile that threatens to hurl from his stomach.

“He isn’t going to save you.”

“Oh, you must be new…” Joker circles him in fascination. “The thing about that is— and it’s really such a _shame_ — I’ve already been to Hell and tangoed with the Devil himself! He didn’t tell you that? It’s a lovely story, actually—”

“Quiet, clown.”

“Feisty this one. I _like_ him.”

“I said—”

“No,” Joker snaps. Behind him, he rests his chin against Batman’s shoulder. The feeling is jarring and, above all else, frightening. His heart races in his chest and his lungs refuse to circulate air. “If you’re going to kill me, I want to hear from _him_ first.” Batman steps away, disgruntling Joker.

_He’s right. He won’t stop until he gets to me._

“It doesn’t work like that.”

“That’s too bad. Those are my conditions.”

“You sound like you _want_ to die.”

“I hate to break it to you, Bats, but we’re not in paradise anymore. I assume you saw what’s left of our beloved city?” Batman doesn’t answer; he doesn’t have to. Joker hums in agreement with the silent sentiment. “I thought so.” What compels him to do it, Batman doesn’t quite know. Perhaps, it’s a transferred comfort in the solidity of his presence from Wayne. Whatever it is and wherever it came from, he sees it through.

“I don’t want to die,” he admits. A small, vulnerable noise escapes him. “I just started to see— like he told me.”

“So… he _is_ still rattling in there.”

“He gave me his memories. He led me to you.”

“And why’s that? What’s got Batsy’s mind on me?” His fists clench and his jaw stiffens.

“I needed to complete a task. I need to kill you.”

“For our humble and gracious Lord Darkseid?” Joker asks humorously. “Following orders has never been your style.”

“Lord Darkseid is most wise and will—” Joker places a finger against his lips, silencing him.

“I’m sorry, but I’d rather you end me than listen to all the brainwashed prattle.” 

“Then, let me.”

“Not without a word with the real Bats.” He taps his bony fingers against his own cheek, licking his teeth. 

_Let me. I’ll give you the words. Let me talk to him._

Batman considers his options: humane or inhumane, cruel or... _tender_. The streets of Gotham come to mind; he makes his choice soundlessly.

_Tell him I forgive him._

“He forgives you,” Batman croaks. His voice retreats from him, as if the words themselves will burn him. Joker quirks an eyebrow but makes no comment or grand gesture. He is quiet and still— rare qualities for him to ever be and seldom at the same time.

_Tell him I’m sorry… for everything. For letting him fall— for wasting our time._

“He’s sorry for everything he has done. For letting you fall… and for wasting your time together.” Joker smirks, the action strangely subtle across his lurid face.

“Aww, how sentimental of you, Bats…” His voice is scratchy but dreamy.

_Tell him I… I wish things were different._

“He wishes things were different.”

“If you’re hearing this, Bats, don’t forget what I told you.”

“And what’s that?” Joker removes the hand from his chin and looks away. His eyes search across the room until he lands on something of interest. He walks towards the vanity, pulls open the middle drawer, and searches through it carelessly. After a few seconds of mindless scavenging, he retrieves a small hand pistol. Joker places it in his hands— ushers it into his grip. Batman has never felt a gun in his hands before. On Apokolips, killing someone never needed a gun; Paradooms could rip most anyone apart in mere milliseconds. It feels ominous to carry— inherently wrong. Wayne is slipping away from him, his presence fading in his head. He can feel his thoughts and memories being taken with him… to some other place, a corner of his mind untapped and unreachable. Joker raises his hand, adjusting its direction to aim at the center of his forehead. He leans into the barrel, a burst of guttural laughter flowing alongside the song’s bittersweet swell. Their eyes meet.

“You’re a good person— the greatest I’ve ever known.” Heat rushes to Batman’s face and eyes.

“I’m sorry he’ll never hear that.”

His finger twitches against the trigger. He closes his eyes. The ringing, the matter, and the blood don’t need to be seen. He’s already seen enough.

* * *

“It is done, my lord.”

Darkseid hums with satisfaction— not relief, not joy.

“Good… you have shown your loyalty, Batman. For this, you will be greatly commended.” The hologram fizzles away. 

Batman stands in the streets once more, blood still warm against his face. In front of him, the Mobius chair awaits him. Perhaps, if the circumstances were different, he might find his surroundings beautiful. They are crafted in Darkseid’s ultimate image. But, this isn’t in the confines of a memory and the Batman of Darkseid’s grooming is gone. Bruce Wayne is gone too— dead and dormant. All that’s left is the symphony playing in his head, the flashing lights behind his eyelids, and the echoing laughter of a deadman following him. Somehow, he thinks his echo will follow him forever. A plague, a shadow, and a cancer influencing his every move. Batman knows Wayne can’t be listening. There’s a noticeable hole where he used to reside. His silence is louder than ever and his presence is simply vacant. But still, despite their purposelessness, he concocts a stream of words in his direction. 

“You were right. There is no winning— there’s no losing.” He swallows harshly, perfecting the sound of _Wayne’s_ Batman. “There is only an ending… and this isn’t it, is it?” He receives no response. Gotham’s wind whips, rubble and dust picking up with its current. Copper twinges the air as his sense of smell returns gradually. “No, this is only my beginning.” It doesn’t feel new; it feels like a long time coming. It doesn’t feel sweet; it feels sickly sour. The music reverberates in his head. Once, without his tainting memories, it might have sounded beautiful. In an orchestral arrangement, to the climax of a nearly flawless performance, he can picture it. He can see the ballerinas and ballerinos— the swans, the prince, and the sorcerer. Batman isn’t sure where these memories come from. He can only assume they aren’t his own. Why would anything so beautiful be his? He sits upon the Mobius chair and stares at Gotham’s ruins.

It doesn’t feel like a promise; it feels like a sentence.


End file.
